“Don’t cry.” I order myself. “I shouldn’t cry.” I assure again. But whenever I watch the terminally ill patient in “My Love beside Me” say his final goodbyes to his lover, or Alan Shore deliver his heartfelt speech in “Boston Legal,” or the fringe national representative team claim its championship through painful endeavors in “National Representative,” I am unable to hold back my tears, again. Every time after I shed my tears, I become abashed at my namby-pambyism, but I can’t help it; I’m just moved too easily by heart-moving stories.

Like many other countries, Korea had a taboo against boys crying. There is an old Korean saying, “A boy is allowed to cry just three times in life. When he is born, when his mother passes away, and when his country perishes.” As ridiculous as it sounds, the three-time crying idea represented the deep-rooted and popular bias against boys, and “crying” in times other than the three was considered unmanly, or even deserving mockery.

Yet, despite being born with Korean blood, I cried a lot more than my allowed three chances. And yes, sometimes I cried because I had broken a bone or two, but most of times there was something more than physical pain behind my tears. It was this inexplicable sense of overwhelming that always made me cry. Sometimes it was sympathy, and sometimes it was extreme happiness; however, no matter in which shape or form it came, such overwhelming always brought a certain sort of awe and admiration along with it. The unconditional love between the soon-to-be-dead and his lover in “My Love beside Me,” or the profundity or genuineness of Alan’s speech in “Boston Legal,” or the perseverance of the team members in the Torino Olympics all stirred up a sense of marvel inside me. I was impressed by such people, fictional or nonfictional, because they displayed great qualities that could move the human heart-by sacrifice, by honesty, and by strenuous efforts.